She's Back
by phantom-lass
Summary: *Fem Sherlock* This is set in Episode 1 of Season 3 'The Empty Hearse'. A little view inside the heads of Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson. Girl Sherlock. Can be read separate from my other FemSherlock fics. Rated T to be on the safe side.
1. Greg Lestrade

**Greg Lestrade – Part 1 of 'She's Back'**

Greg Lestrade fell apart a little more inside every time Anderson came to him with another one of his crazy conspiracy theories, all on how Sherlock was actually still alive. The ridiculous thing was that he knew that if anyone could pull it off that person would be Sherlock. But as weeks passed into months and months into years, until even John had stopped staying in contact, his hope at Anderson's idea that it was all faked had cracked and then shattered completely. Now…now it just hurt, and right now he was losing his patience.

"Enough!" he snapped at the other man who looked like the poster boy for basement-conspiracy-nuts-'r'-us and nothing like the clean shaven 'serial adulterer' (as Sherlock had referred to him more than once) of a few years ago.

"You know what this is, don't you?" he pointed his finger at him, trying not to lose his temper completely. It was a hard thing with Anderson. And whenever he saw Donovan too come think of it. "It's guilt. _You_ drove her to do what she did. You and Donovan. With your spite and your accusations, you both drove her into jumping," he took in a deep breath through his nose to calm down, "And you can't live with the guilt,"

The smartest, the goodest (although she had went to her grave thinking that he still thought she lacked that), the most honest, un-people person Greg had ever known had leapt to her death and he had done nothing to prevent it. Not all he could have done. He had followed orders and done his job and not a day went by when he wished he had told the Yard where to go and stood by her. But he hadn't. All he had been able to do was push the investigation on Richard Brooks – James Moriarty – and by doing so exonerate Sherlock and clear her name. Any hope any of the criminals she had helped put away had entertained on being released had been shot down upon the clearing of the detective's reputation.

Now, after two years, he was standing no more than ten feet away from the reporters who had to happily jumped on the 'Sherlock Holmes Witch Hunt' bus back when this mess started and who were now proclaiming her innocence to the world.

Blood suckers the lot of them.

He wouldn't even be watching this on the telly as a matter of principle but he had been called upon to give an interview. The cheek of the thing was that he had to get himself to the cameras and then proceed to freeze his arse off waiting for them to wave him over.

Anderson was still harping on with his theories. After two years of listening to the guilt stricken man come up with one outlandish idea after the next Greg had become an expert at almost always keeping his composure, but as soon as the paving stones she had landed on came into the equation he had quite honestly had enough.

"That's enough!"

Anderson's mouth hung open mid word-in shock and Greg took a quick sip of his coffee to try and stop himself from decking his ex-colleague. He couldn't do that with all of the news cameras about.

"Sherlock is dead and she is staying dead," he told Anderson harshly.

The other man made a move to argue.

"No! Guilt. That's all this is. It doesn't matter how many theories you think up it won't change what happened. What she was driven to do,"

Greg walked away, surprised that he hadn't squashed the paper cup and sent coffee all over himself in his anger.

Anderson was unbalanced. He just had to keep remembering that.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," the idiot called from behind him.

Greg sighed heavily and turned.

"That won't bring her back though, will it?"

He ignored the shattered expression on Anderson's face and turned back to the reporters. He wanted this to be over and done with.

The interviews were done, if not to the full satisfaction of the Yard at least to Greg's mind. If they didn't want awkward questions being answered or him occasionally diverting from the script then they should have bullied someone else into being the speaker.

He strode through the car park, his nerves screaming before he finally gave in, stopped, and started the hunt for his already half empty packet of cigarettes.

Taking one from the packet and returning the small packet advertising the state of his lungs to his pocket he searched for his lighter next when the sound of something like a glass bottle being knocked over echoed through the cement walled and ceilinged area.

When he heard nothing else he continued looking for the lighter, the bloody thing, he knew he should have kept it in the packet.

Finally.

"Those things will kill you, you know," a voice announced from the darkness as he raised the lighter to his mouth. His jaw slackened and his heart pounded. The overwhelming urge to giggle bubbled up inside him as he snatched the still unlit cigarette from his lips (and if there was ever a time that he needed nicotine that time was now) and turned slowly in the direction of the voice he hadn't heard in over two year.

"Sherlock?" he whispered in shock as a slim, willowy figure shrouded in a tell-tale jacket stepped from the blackness and into the light.

In that one moment, standing there pale and unsure Sherlock Holmes was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

"Hello Greg," here voice was trembling and all he could do was stare at her, drinking in the sight.

"You've," she cleared her throat, "You've been letting things slide a little while I've been away," a small wobbly smile came to her lips and something snapped inside him. He darted forward and engulfed her far to skinny frame in his arms, pulling her close and holding her tightly. Greg began to rock from side to side without knowing, an automatic reaction to feeling the dampness on his neck. Who was it coming from? He didn't care. She had been tense in his embrace but now she had relaxed and he held her all the tighter for it.

It wasn't until much later that night after he had dropped her off at Baker Street-

" _Doesn't John know?" he asked her as he pulled up the handbrake and just sat._

 _Sherlock nodded her head._

" _And?" he prompted._

" _He's angry," she supplied after some silence._

" _Ah,"_

" _I…I can see why. I am not entirely stupid when it some to these things," she defended._

 _No, she wasn't. She had grown as a person during her absence. But there was a new darkness in her eyes that had not been there before her 'death'._

" _But…" she sighed, "But I would be lying if I said I had not hoped for a different reaction._

 _-_ that his eyes shot open in realisation.

Anderson had been right all along.

 **Hello guys,**

 **This is the first part of a three-shot (totally a thing ;)) I did quite a while ago. I figured it was time I finally posted it here.**

 **Mrs Hudson and John will be next.**

 **Please let me know what you think.**

 **Take care :)**


	2. Mrs Hudson

**Mrs Hudson – Part 2 of 'She's Back'**

Mrs Hudson liked to think that she was a calm and collected woman when a situation called for it. She had spent several years under the same roof as Sherlock Holmes after all and hadn't killed the young woman when she had fired a gun at her wall (tempting as it may have been) or blocked the pipes more than once with unmentionables – _'in the name of science Mrs Hudson!'_ …

The poor dear just didn't know any better and tended to turn to drastic measures when she was bored and without a case. It didn't matter what she did, Mrs Hudson had always been able to forgive her little eccentricities.

But this!

Mrs Hudson slammed down the cups and saucers onto her kitchen table. They weren't her mother's best set – they were packed away safely in a box – so she could smash one or the other (or both) over her visitors head if she felt like it and not feel any regret over the loss.

Now, she wasn't the swearing type but she could come up with a few four letter combinations to fit the bill on this occasion. And it would make her feel a lot better.

But she didn't crack her visitor over the head with her second best crockery or turn the air blue with her varied (when required) vocabulary. Instead she sat down and poured some tea.

John cleared his throat.

 _Good. He should be uncomfortable._

She hadn't minded the silence from him at first. After all Sherlock's…death had been a shock and a lot to deal with, and what with the lies the papers had been constantly churning out after the funeral and with the press basically camping on the front door, none of them had really gotten the chance to accept what had happened. So, when John had left one morning with a packed bag she hadn't been all that surprised. The poor man needed a break. But then when the weeks added to months and the months to a year and more she started to feel more than a little annoyed.

What had he been playing at, dropping off the face of the earth the way he had and leaving her in the empty house all by herself? Sherlock had been living upstairs for so long and coming in and out at all hours that being along again had felt so wrong.

There were no more explosions as 'experiments' went 'squify' (in all fairness she didn't really miss that – some of the smells had taken weeks to get rid of), no catching her trying to sneak various body bits up the stairs and no violin playing at 2 in the morning. She had actually bought a CD of violin music and played it from the top landing. Whatever she had been trying to achieve hadn't worked. It wasn't Sherlock's playing.

Mrs Hudson sat and glared at John as he prepared his tea. She had made the first cup all wrong and had to tip it down the sink.

She _may_ have done it on purpose. She had a point to make after all.

"Well…you forget things…you know," she had remarked.

And now she just watched him.

"One phone call John!" she couldn't hold it in anymore and the words just came pouring out of her mouth, "I'm not your mother, I know I'm not entitled to anything, but," her throat tightened, "But after everything John was it too much to expect?"

She battled to keep herself in control when all she wanted to do was have a good cry.

 _Sentiment,_ a voice whispered in her head, it sounded just like Sherlock.

John made his excuses and all she could do was sigh heavily and nod her head in acceptance as John asked her to understand why he had found it hard to pick up the phone.

What else could she do but reach out and squeeze his arm?

 _Oh Sherlock._

She hadn't been into the flat for months. When Sherlock had- When John had left she had to force herself to go into the flat to make sure that Sherlock hadn't left anything in the fridge, bread bin, butter dish or kettle that would result in a passer by calling the authorities if it began to rot. She had entered once more since then to try and clean, armed with her marigolds and rags. All she could do was walk straight back out again as Sherlock's voice seemed to echo around the flat telling her to not tidy up.

 _I know exactly where everything is, thank you Mrs Hudson…_

She tugged the curtains open and coughed as the dust rose in clouds from the material. She could hear John wandering around behind her.

"Why now John?" she asked, walking around the table and opened the other curtains.

"I…" he sounded nervous, "I have some news,"

 _Oh heavens. Not John too._

She spun in horror, ignoring the twinge from her hip at the sudden movement.

"Is it serious?"

John looked confused.

"What? No. I'm not sick,"

Her panic drained away.

"I'm moving on," he was smiling.

"Emigrating?" she chirped, maybe a change would do him more good than staying in London. But still, changing country was a bit extreme.

"Uh no. I've met someone,"

"Oh,"

Mrs Hudson felt a twinge in her chest. She had so hoped that Sherlock and John would be an item since the doctor had moved in and their friendship had grown so quickly. She knew that they would have done anything for each other but that things had never gone any further than a deep friendship. There was an age difference it was true but Mrs Hudson had never been able to imagine Sherlock with a boy her own age. No, an older man to look after and watch over her was what she needed. Mrs Hudson had hoped that John Watson would be that person for Sherlock, but friendship – as strong as it was – was as far as the relationship had gone. She could not help but think on whither that would be different now if Sherlock was still with them. She would have turned twenty-two this year.

Mr Hudson plastered a happy smile on her face as her ex-lodger told her all about Mary.

She tightened her grip on the still dripping frying pan, the smell of fairy liquid thick in her nose as she moved towards the door. Someone else was in the house. She had heard the floor boards creak above her head. A few overzealous reporters had broken into the flat over the past few years and she had been sure to send them off with a flea in their ear, but tonight she would be doing more than that.

She could see a silhouette through the clouded glass of the door and her chest tightened.

It…

She lowered the pan as the person reached for the handle.

…couldn't be?

The door began to open.

Could it?

Mrs Hudson froze as the door swung open fully to reveal a figure she had never thought to see again.

It couldn't be.

It shouldn't be.

But it was.

The pale face, the icy blue eyes, the dark curl, the willowy (more so than the last time she had seen it) figure.

The smile…

Mrs Hudson screamed.

* * *

 **Poor Mrs Hudson, Sherlock was lucky she didn't give her a heart-attack.**

 **Up next will be John's POV.**

 **Hope you enjoyed this.**

 **:)**


	3. John Watson

**John Watson – Part 3 of 'She's Back'**

John stood and stared at the polished stone before him. It was a dim day but the light still bounced from the inky black gravestone.

It had been months since he had last been to the resting place of the young woman who had saved him from himself. He felt guilty over that, although he knew that she wouldn't have held it against him. Sherlock never had been one for excess sentimentality – even if she was the most feeling person he knew, she just showed it in different ways, like hunting down serial killers and the like.

"I've met someone Sherlock," he told the stone…he hadn't spoken to the grave since he had begged for a miracle, a miracle that he hadn't received – but then he supposed that there were some things that even Sherlock Holmes couldn't do, "and I think you would like her,"

He stopped and breathed.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

So much had happened since Sherlock had –

John laughed a breathy self-mocking chuckle. Here he was standing in front of a stone with her name on it and he couldn't even think the reason why she was in a box several feet below him.

He had left Baker Street. He had returned to practicing medicine. He had met Mary. He was going to propose to Mary. He loved Mary. And finally, after two long years, Sherlock's name had been cleared. But it was too late.

John had never realised how many people Sherlock had helped during her short life but they had all made themselves known after her fall and had shown no qualms with voicing their opinions.

Sherlock Holmes was a special, gifted young woman who was no fake and the world would know it by the time they were finished. Even two years later a week didn't go by when there wasn't a news story dealing with an update in the court case or giving an interview. Angelo had been the most vocal in his support and the one time John had walked past the restaurant it had been to see a camera crew setting up. Next had been Henry, but thanks to the classified information involved with the BASKERVILLE case he hadn't been able to reveal just how Sherlock had helped him. John had hoped that something would develop between his young friend and their client. But it hadn't, and like all cases Henry had become more water under the bridge…

He saw a figure approach him in the reflection of the stone.

He reached his hand back and Mary took it.

She squeezed.

He squeezed.

They stood and stared.

John stepped into 221 Baker Street, the smile that had been on his lips when he entered fading quickly.

Ghosts.

That's all that waited for him up in the flat, but he hadn't realised they would start as soon as he walked through the door.

" _That has got to be the most ridiculous thing I have ever done," John panted, leaning back against the wall and fighting to catch his breath. He felt so alive. Who knew that running around London behind a crazy girl (because she had to be crazy, there was no doubt about it) could be so invigorating._

 _A little giggle came from beside him where the girl – Sherlock Holmes, funny name for a girl that – was also using the wall as a support and catching her breath._

" _Oh, I am sure you have. After all, you invaded Afghanistan," she panted._

 _He froze for a second or two and then chuckled._

 _Most avoided the elephants in the room – even if they were squashing you – but not this girl. She climbed on up there and made them do tricks._

" _Well, I did have a little help there," he told her._

 _He looked at her and met her eyes – funny eyes, John was sure he had never seen eyes so pale before – her face crinkled as a smile broke across her lips. They both giggled._

John looked around the flat. Nothing had changed. It was like 221B had been in a bubble for the past two years, dust was the only thing that had effected the place that had once been his home. And it had been his home. He had lived places, he had a flat or a house but this flat had been a home, Sherlock had made it a home… That had been part of the reason why he hadn't been able to face living there anymore. Every time he had stepped out of the door it had become that bit harder to go back, until, one day, he just didn't.

Now he had to explain to Mrs Hudson why after all this time (embarrassingly long really) he had chosen now to return and wasn't it just like her to jump to some of the most outlandish reasons for his reappearance at Baker Street.

"I've met someone,"

John saw the disappointment flash across her face. She was disappointed in him. He knew that Mrs Hudson had hopes, or had actually been under the impression, that there was something going on between himself and Sherlock. It wasn't like he hadn't thought about it. He was only a man after all, and being in the company of an energetic (if a little eccentric) young woman almost 24/7 had naturally led to some internal speculation. But when there had been no signs of attraction from Sherlock towards himself (or anyone else) he had decided it was better for both of them to be friends. Close and a little unorthodox but still friend. And it had been one of the most rewarding relationships of his life.

But now she was gone.

John stood and stared.

He was in his now fiancés favourite restaurant, the very same woman standing at his side, her hand squeezing his with a fierceness that stopped the blood flowing to his fingers. But he didn't notice.

This should be the happiest night of his life.

The woman he loved had accepted his proposal – not the smoothest speech of his life – and the engagement ring he had bought her was now on her hand.

What didn't he have to be happy about?

He studied the slim (almost sickly so) young woman being escorted from the building by several staff members. He knew that face, pale and slim, framed by dark curls. And the eyes… How had he forgotten those eyes?

The eyes of a ghost.

The night was chilly and John could see the clouds of his own breath in the lights from the street lamps.

They had caught up with the young woman. He had actually dragged Mary after him when she had refused to let go of his hand.

The girl looked like a rabbit in the headlights, her eyes – those eyes – wide and glistening, her mouth slightly open as she breathed.

John stared.

"Is this…?" he could hear Mary ask. She sounded far away but she was right beside him, still holding his hand.

He stared.

"Hello John," the ghost whispered to him, a small unsure smile curling the corner of her lips.

John stared.

"Oh no," Mary moaned beside him, "You can't be,"

"I'm back," the ghost spoke softly.

John exploded.

* * *

 **Hi everyone.**

 **I am sitting in my pyjamas as I write this, nursing a nasty bug :(. I haven't had the brain power to do anything original so I have edited these from my tumblr and finally posted them here.**

 **Hope you enjoyed them.**

 **This one comes across a little melodramatic I think but I loved writing it.**

 **Take care.**

 **:)**


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